


A Little Fall of Rain

by AnOutlandishFanfic



Series: A Little Fall of Rain [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOutlandishFanfic/pseuds/AnOutlandishFanfic
Summary: What would have happened if Claire and Faith hadn't survived the aftermath of Jamie's dual and he was left to pick up the pieces?





	1. Woe Is All I Possess

The Bastille, Paris, France. 1744.

The sound of the prison corridor’s door opening and closing had me on my feet in an instant, my fists grasping at the iron bars that encaged me. A lower rumble accompanied the jailer’s nasal intonations and I recognized it at once.

Murtagh.

Saints be praised.

It had been a week without contact, without any word of Claire or the child. The image of Claire’s prone form on the ground in the meadow was ingrained into my mind, the only thing I saw when I closed my eyes. I couldn’t escape the echo of her cries; they came to me again and again with every beat of my heart.

Lord, that she may be safe… she and the child.

Their heavy footfalls grew louder and I found I couldn’t breathe. My hands trembled on the cold, immovable rods, my mouth lost all semblance of moisture as I watched my godfather approach. He didn’t speak as the jailer unlocked my cell and motioned for me to follow. I opened my mouth to ask of my wife and child, but he silenced me with a look.

I numbly and silently followed the jailer down corridor after corridor, each step bringing another question to mind. At what cost had my freedom been purchased? Would I be exiled from France or merely banished from the king’s court? All of these and others like it fell away as my soul begged to know the answer to just one:

Do they live?

We halted before what I knew was the final door and I swallowed hard as a uniformed officer, one of the Bastille’s wardens, uttered my terms of parole to me in detached, disinterested French, “You have one week to book passage on any ship that will take you, but you may not return to France thereafter. Should you choose to do otherwise, you will be returned to the Bastille and live out your days as the king’s prisoner. Is this understood?”

“Oui,” I stated clearly.

With a nod to us both, the officer opened the door and we stepped out into the blinding, Parisian day.

“Dinna ask it, a bhalaich,” Murtagh grunted as he turned towards the carriage. “I’ll tell ye everything once we’re away.”

I entered after him and sank onto the seat, impervious to the drastic increase in the level of comfort found in the carriage’s plush bench. Once signaled by Murtagh, we began to bounce down the cobblestone streets. I waited until we’d exited the prison’s gates, then turned to face him, studying his unreadable expression as I pleaded, “Tell me.”

He didn’t meet my gaze, but turned to the window instead. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he swallowed hard. I watched as he fidgeted nervously with his beard, his hand trembling as he brought it to his face. The pallor of his skin changed drastically, going from his usual ruddy complexion to a waxen, woeful pale in a single moment as his eyes finally found mine.

“They’re gone, Jamie,” he whispered, his voice burdened with the gravity of his words, “the both of them. I’m so sorry.”

Gone.

Claire was dead.

I shook my head in negation as the world came crashing down around me, but I knew it to be the truth. A cry escaped my lips, one like I’d heard only on the field of battle. It was a sound of futile desperation, the sound of a mortal wound being inflicted. I was aware of Murtagh’s voice, his hands on my shoulders, his face near mine, but it was as if I were under water.

The murky depths of sudden, unbearable grief that I was submerged in obscured all sense of reality. Memories of Claire, the haunting sound of her cry for me in the meadow, and more pressed down upon me with the crushing force of a mighty wave. I was dashed against the immovable rocks of guilt and of regret over and over again, until I was nothing more than shattered, despondent pieces of the man I once had been.

Now utterly broken, I floated to the surface to be tossed about by the winds of explanation. I caught snippets of my godfather’s words, never grasping what had happened in full detail as I bobbed about, untethered to the world around me.

…twas too late…

…followed her soon after…

…sent word…

…buried together…

Together.

They were together, my wife and child, at home in Heaven with her parents and mine.

But, here, I was alone.

…Dougal spoke with him…

Dougal?

“What?” I mumbled, finding my voice untrustworthy.

“Aye, a bhalaich,” Murtagh sighed as he passed a hand over face in worried sorrow. “He’s in Paris. He’s the one who got ye released.”

I nodded with a scowl, not bothering to wonder what his presence meant.

“But there are… stipulations,” he continued.

I bristled, “Aye, I’m to leave and never return, I ken well enough.”

“Tha’s no’ all,” he warned. “Yer uncle went to the Charles Stuart to get ye released, who then spoke wi’ the king. The agreement was that if he were able to have ye released, ye’d become a leader in his uprising… an officer and spokesman in Scotland until he could return himself.”

My eyes slid shut as understanding took hold. In exchange for my freedom, I would now be an integral part of a doomed rebellion, a guiding hand in the demise of my homeland. Claire had been clear, the Rising would not place a Stuart king back on the throne of Scotland and but would claim hundreds of thousands of lives instead.

And Jonathan Wolverton Randall would one of them, so help me God.

…

“Nephew?”

Dougal’s voice turned my head from the open wardrobe, Claire’s gowns before me. I’d been standing there for far too long, I knew, but couldn’t bring myself to close the door, to shut away the last tangible pieces I had of her. The lingering scent of her on her clothing was the only thing keeping my heart beating, I was sure.

“Jamie,” he began again, shaking his head in pity, “I’m so sorry for the loss, lad. She was a fine helpmate to ye, indeed.”

Before me stood the man responsible for my marriage to Claire, had it not been for him and his heavy handed ways, I’m sure I would have never married her. I should have felt gratitude or even a measure of fondness towards my uncle, but, instead, I saw him for the manipulative man that he was.

“Ye ken nothing of which ye speak,” I bit out.

Flames burned bright in his eyes as strode toward me, “Have I no’ lost a wife, same as ye?”

“No, Uncle,” my chest heaved, “ye havena.”

I let go of the fistful of yellow silk I’d been clutching, meeting Dougal at the foot of the bed.

“Ye chose to live apart from yer wife for as long as ye did. Ye had time to repair what was broken, but ye didna,” I spat. “I didna have tha’ choice. I had no’ the time to repair what I’d done. She was taken from me before she could…” I swallowed hard before continuing, “before she could give me the bairns tha’ ye have, Uncle. Ye possess a legacy…”   
“All I have is woe.”


	2. Fragmened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie visits L'Hopital to gain some insight on his wife's death.

Present; L’Hopital, Paris, France.  
Jamie.

“Monsieur Fraser?”

I jumped at the sudden sound of Mother Hildegard’s voice, causing a fountain of apologies for startling me to tumble into her greetings of welcome as she led me through an open doorway. We entered a small, private salon and I sat obediently when she all but shoved me onto a settee. She perched opposite me, stilling for the first time, her eyes wide and sorrowful as she bid me to speak. My chest heaved, my hands trembled with the resolve it took to ask aloud my questions, to quiet the haunting voices inside my head.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I began, “Were you with her?”

“Oui, mon cher,” she assured me, taking my hand firmly in hers. “I was at her side, from the moment she arrived.”

…

Six days earlier, L’Hopital.  
Mother Hildegard.

The carriage clattered to a stop outside the front doors, barely clearing a passerby in its haste. One of the footmen leapt down, shouting for someone to help his passenger. He swung open the carriage door and disappeared inside as I ran down the steps to meet them.

The man’s head emerged suddenly, his arm reaching out as well, signaling for someone to assist him, “She can’t walk and I can’t carry her alone.”

An orderly came forward and climbed into the carriage, the two of them reemerging and bringing the patient into the sunlight. My heart plummeted as I saw who it was.

Claire.

Our patients were rarely people of means, making the carriage a surprise, but its reason for being here was no longer unknown. Claire would have insisted upon being brought here, I knew, to my place of healing if something happened to her or the baby. The thought propelled me down the stairs to her side.

“Ma mie,” I murmured, taking her hand as the orderly awkwardly gathered her into his arms and released the footman from his hold on her, “You’re here, in good hands.”

Her eyes flicked open as we mounted the steps two at a time.

“Too… early, Mother,” she groaned.

Tears came to my eyes as I tried to comfort her as the small crowd of us tried to go through the doors at the same time,“Shh, my child, save your strength. I know.”

“Jamie…”

I looked over my shoulder at the footman trailing down the corridor behind us; his concern for his mistress was obviously at the forefront of his mind.

“Notify Madam Fraser’s husband… as well as her household, if you haven’t already.”

He blanched at this, then turned tail and ran back to his post.

Returning my focus to Claire, I watched as she began to slowly writhe in the orderly’s arms, her eyes wide as her jaw clenched.

“Here,” I guided the orderly to an empty bed and flagged down Sister Bernadette as she passed, “Sister, would you find Sister Angelique? Tell her I am in need of her assistance with Claire.”

Sister Angelique was one of the most experienced midwives we had at L’Hopital, as well as my almost-constant companion, and I needed her at my side as Claire delivered. My concern for mother and child only grew as I caught sight of the smeared blood on Claire’s hem. I lowered myself to the bed beside her and patted her knee reassuringly, “Shall we see how close you are?”

“No!” She tried to move away from me, not overly succeeding, managing only to shake her head vehemently as she gasped out, “Can’t… come… now.”

Deciding to wait until the contraction passed before trying any more conversation, I took hold of her hand, letting her latch onto me with as much veracity as she needed. Her eyes slid shut again and she began to curl up, her knees rising with the force her womb was exerting upon her baby.

“Try not to hold your breath, ma chère,” I crooned as I lifted her sodden hem, trying to shield the red stains from her view. “I know it hurts.”

I shifted to get a better view, erring on the side of a strictly visual exam until she was less distressed, and worked to keep my expression neutral. A heavy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach as I felt Claire’s gaze fix upon me as her contraction waned. She was bleeding far more than I was comfortable with and the both of us knew something was very wrong.

“How… soon?”

“Not long,” I squeezed her hand. “The baby is almost here.”

She nodded, looking away as great tears rolled down her cheeks. A shadow appeared at the edge of my vision and a deep, male voice accompanied it.

“May I be of any assistance, Mother Hildegard?”

The offer was given with good intent, but I watched as Claire immediately reverted back into the condition in which she’d arrived: complete panic.

“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Foray,” I forced a smile at the man who had single-handedly undone the calm we’d worked so hard for, “but Claire and I have things well in hand.”

He left as silently as he’d come, leaving Claire and I alone once more.

“Mother,” she hiccuped, “I can’t lose my baby.”

“They are a fighter, non? Just like their mother.”

“But it’s too early. They can’t… they won’t live.”

“Our God is a God of miracles, my child,” I smiled, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, “and I’m not counting one out for you and your baby just yet.”

Claire’s gaze grew distant as another contraction began. Her heels dug into the mattress and her head tipped back, arching as she struggled to ignore what her instincts were telling her.

“Let you body do what it must,” I coaxed, lifting her gown out of the way and preparing myself for the baby’s arrival. “Don’t fight it.”

Sister Angelique swept in, arms laden with clean sheeting and the supplies that we would need in a matter of moments. She took hold of Claire’s other hand, once she’d deposited the items onto the bed beside me, and inquired, “How is she?”

My eyes flicked to hers, silently conveying just how dire the situation was.

All was not well.

With the briefest of nods, Sister Angelique turned to our patient with determination, “Claire, I need you to squeeze my hand.”

Claire’s eyes remained closed, but she did so.

“Good,” she cajoled and patted her arm. “Do you feel like you want to push?”

Claire gave a resolute shake of her head.

Sister Angelique rose a brow in question of me and I nodded. It was, indeed, time to push. Claire was a woman who possessed a deep, inner strength that few could boast of, but it was currently working against her. Whether she wanted to or not, she did need to push.

An idea came to me and I pounced on it.

“Do you know if Monsieur Foray is near, Sister Angelique?”

Claire’s eyes snapped open, giving me a glimpse of the unquenchable, fiery rage boiling inside of her. Her chin rose as she bit out, “He… will not touch… my baby.”

“Then you must push, ma mie,” I worked at hiding my smile, my question having prompted just the reaction I’d wanted. “Can you do that for me?”

A visceral change came over Clair almost instantly and Sister Angelique sprang into action, moving to support her as she began to bear down with all of her might. Her body responded in kind and I praised her as she fought to birth her child with each rolling contraction.

“Good! Well done,” I crooned.

I could hear Sister Angelique coaching her, coaxing her to give everything she had and more. She was doing admirably, but was begging to flag, growing weaker with every contraction. I held my breath as I prayed for mother and child.

Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae: Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.

“Jamie!”

Claire’s cry, the elongation of her husband’s name as their child was born, shook me to my very core. I reached behind me with one hand and grasped for the cloths to clean and swaddle the child, but someone handed them to me. A look over my shoulder found Sister Bernadette hovering near, ready to assist in any way she could.

I gave her a quick nod of thanks and turned back to the baby, who was beginning to show signs of life as I held them close. Tiny arms and legs nudged me as I gently wiped them dry and as Sister Angelique worked to tie off the cord, to hasten the afterbirth’s delivery and staunch the bleeding.

Ten fingers, ten toes. The baby’s skin had an unhealthy pallor beneath the usual residue of birth and I prayed for life, for breath as I cleaned her — for she was, in fact, a girl — but she did not cry. Claire’s trembling hands reached out for her child, silently begging for the one she’d worked so hard to bring into the world.

Ad te clamamus, exsules, filii Hevae. Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.

“She lives, ma chère,” I murmured, guiding Claire’s hand to rest on top of the curve of her daughter’s head as I finished cleaning the baby.

A flicker of a smile played across her pale lips as she sagged against the pillows Sister Bernadette was arraigning behind her, the baby’s borning cry finally coming in response to her mother’s touch. It was a weak, pitiful sound, but it filled Claire with a such a determined light that it bolstered everyone around her.

Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, Illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte. Et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis, post hoc exsilium ostende.

Once the cord was cut and mobility granted, I placed the infant on Claire’s chest, staying near to support the little one’s head as the two met for the first time.

O clemens! O pia! O dulcis Virgo Maria!

“Hello, little one,” she slowly crooned as it took great effort to bend her head, kissing the crown of her daughter’s.

“Have you a name for her, ma colombe blanche?”

I didn’t want to rush the moment, but the baby needed to be christened as soon as possible and I’d just caught sight of Father Laurentin.

Claire’s brows furrowed and she shook her head, her words coming in fits and starts, “We… we hadn’t decided… only… boys, Mother.”

“What about Faith?” I offered as L’Hopital’s priest knelt at the side of the bed. Father Laurentin was rather young, but was well suited to his calling and the care he took with the patients was faultless.

“Faith,” Claire murmured, her smile returning.

Father Laurentin smiled with her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “The peace of the Lord be with you always, my child.”

She turned to him, her eyes wary as she feabily shook her head, adamant, “My baby… first.”

With a nod, he inquired, “What name have you given your child?”

“Faith,” Claire repeated with a strength I didn’t know she had left, “Faith Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser.”

Father Laurentin gave her a warm, reassuring smile and began, readying his vial of holy water as he spoke over the tiny child, “Faith Elizabeth, ego te baptízo in nómine Patris.”

The anointing caused Faith to stir, her brows furrowing in reflex.

“Et Fílii…”

Her eyes opened with the second application and she gazed up at her mother.

“Et Spíritus Sancti.”

The priest’s steady hand gently cupped the curve of Fath’s head, his own bowing in silent prayer. I joined him in petitioning for the child’s restoration and strength.

“God our Father,” he continued in Latin, slowly tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead, “we have anointed your child Faith with the oil of healing and peace. Caress her, shelter her, and keep her in your tender care. We ask this in the name of Jesus the Lord.”

“Amen,” I murmured with him.

He turned and did the same for Claire, “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”

His thumb anointed her hand, which firmly clasped her child near.

“May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you and raise you up.”

“Father in heaven,” he continued, “through this holy anointing grant Claire comfort in her suffering. When she is afraid, give her courage; when afflicted, give her patience; when dejected, afford her hope; and when alone, assure her of the support of your holy people.”

“May the blessing of almighty God, the Father and the Son, and the Holy Spirit come upon you and remain with you forever. Amen.”

Claire sighed, her fingers tracing the curve of Faith’s brows, slipping down the slope of her nose, coming to rest on the baby’s nearly blue lips. Faith made no move to suckle or even open her mouth at what should have been her mother’s prompting.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Please…”

“I will watch over her,” I vowed easily, “until she is in your arms once more.”

Heart of Jesus, once in agony, have mercy on the dying.

The lines of worry, of fear left Claire’s face and her eyes closed peacefully. My heart lurched, thinking her gone, but her hand moved, clutching at her daughter in a final embrace. Faith’s fingers closed around her mother’s and she let out a tremulous sigh that echoed the stirrings of my soul.

One final breath more, and Claire was gone.

Saints of God, come to her aid! Come to meet her, Angels of the Lord! Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.

Gently, I eased the baby from Claire’s arms, tears running freely down my cheeks as I did so.

May Christ, who called you, take you to himself; may Angels lead you to Abraham’s side.

Faith’s breathing was shallow and I knew she would soon follow her mother.

Give her eternal rest, O Lord, and may your light shine on her forever.

Rocking back and forth, I held the tiny angel close.

Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the almighty Father, who created you; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who suffered for you; in the name of the Holy Spirit, who was poured out upon you, go forth, faithful Christian. May you live in peace this day, may your home be with God in Zion, with Mary, the Virgin Mother of God, with Joseph, and all the Angels and Saints.

“Mother Hildegard?”

Sister Bernadette’s voice interrupted my prayer and I looked up to find her approaching with the young boy who often accompanied Claire and a weathered man I’d never met. The gentleman’s gaze was fixed upon Claire’s still form, his skin growing paler with every step he took.

“This is Madam Fraser’s godfather, Mother.”

He looked startled at this introduction, but nodded, his voice thick, “Aye, my name is Murtagh Fraser, Claire is my… was a daughter to me.”

“Come,” I motioned them forward as I rose from the bed, shifting the baby in my arms, preparing myself to give her to her kin. “Sit, Monsieur.”

The boy knelt on the floor by Claire’s side, crossing himself before burying his face in the mattress. I eased Faith away from my chest, offering her out to him who loved her.

“Claire named her Faith,” I murmured as Murtagh took her into his arms, holding her close as he sat by her mother’s side.

He studied her, his face melting into a sea of reverent awe as his voice dropped into a reverent hush, “She is so small, Mother.”

My heart clenched, but I saw in his eyes that he knew what would come. The boy straightened as Murtagh sat down, quickly brushing tears from his cheeks and setting a determined look to his face.

“Ma petite will need a nurse, non? I will help to find one,” he vowed.

His words, so optimistic and earnest, sent me to my knees beside him. I gently cupped his face with one hand as the other clasped his tightly. Unwavering blue eyes looked up at me, shining bright with the tears he was intent on holding back.

“Non, mon fils,” I murmured.

Understanding dawned and he looked from me to the bundle in Murtagh’s arms and back again. He mutely shook his head, unable to voice the protestations of his heart. It was unfair, unjust, and incomprehensible to him, I knew, that death would take both Claire and her child.

Faith sputtered in Murtagh’s arms, an almost wheezing cough that cut me to the quick. There was nothing I could do for her besides offer the comfort of loving arms, and the man who held her certainly provided that and more. He bent his head, pressing his forehead to hers and began to speak to her in a language I didn’t understand, but I found that I didn’t need his words to be translated to understand their meaning, for some things — like unending love and devotion — are the same in every language.

He began to rock back and forth, humming a low tune under his breath. I’d heard it only once before, but thought I remembered the words.

Though our hearts be wrapped in sorrow,  
From the hope of dawn we borrow,  
A promise of a glad tomorrow,  
All through the night.

…

Present; L’Hopital’s Private Cemetery.  
Jamie.

I knelt, brushing my fingertips over the engravement.

Claire Beauchamp Fraser  
1716 — 1744

The finality, the permanent etching my wife’s life into stone, hit me in a way Mother Hildegard’s words hadn’t. I could touch this, see this with my very own eyes. I would never see Claire again, I’d been robbed of the opportunity to mourn over her body before it was buried. This was the only bridge I had to her, to them.

A cold slab of granite.

Just beside Claire’s stone and a little to the right, was a small, white marker that read simply:

Faith Fraser  
1744

My daughter.

A wheeze escaped my lips as my palm pressed against the inlaid words. She’d lived only a matter of hours, but it was the fact that she had lived at all that pressed down upon me. Would she have had the strength to fight for her life if I had been the one to hold her, to sustain her? Could she have grown into a young woman? Become the mirror and legacy of her mother?

The weight of my guilt followed me wherever I went. It was there with my every breath, my every waking moment was spent regretting the choice I had made, vowing to not let their deaths be in vain.

I would stop this revolution, even if it killed me…  
And I prayed to God that it would.

…  
…  
…

Translation of Mother Hildegard’s Latin Prayer (Hail Holy Queen)

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of mercy; our life, our sweetness and our hope.  
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve: to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.  
Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary!


End file.
